


when the dust settles

by Mothervvoid



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Blood and Injury, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Hurt No Comfort, Hurt Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Major Character Injury, POV Second Person, Post-Doomsday, Sickfic, Technoblade Hears Voices (Video Blogging RPF), Temporary Character Death, Video Game Mechanics, Violence, Whump, tommy and tubbo having the best damn friendship on the smp
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-16 20:46:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28962651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mothervvoid/pseuds/Mothervvoid
Summary: You read the words again, turning them over in your mind and in your hands as if they were smooth river rocks. You stare and stare, everything around you frozen all but for this small string of words.Technoblade was slain by Dream.
Relationships: Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound, Ranboo & Technoblade & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Technoblade & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit
Comments: 12
Kudos: 115





	1. at least ceasar died surrounded by his friends

**Author's Note:**

> technoangst and dream angst fans come get y'all juice feat. tubbo and tommy actually getting a break for once
> 
> set after doomsday, before the syndicate is formed but after techno is made aware of ranboo. i started writing this before the season 2 finale so it diverges pretty heavily from canon but /shrugs its fiiiiiiine.
> 
> this is about the characters not the actual people this isn't rpf i swear to god

You’re working on a new build in Snowchester with Tubbo when the ping comes through. 

It wasn’t too cold out, and the hard work you had been putting in to finishing Tubbo’s Tower had left you sweaty. It was a small thing, the tower, only one of three buildings that currently made up the new tiny town you and Tubbo founded together; but you dared to be proud of it. Dared to take pride in your efforts towards rebuilding what had been lost on Doomsday. You’d glanced away from your work for a moment, and the ping came in.

[ _Technoblade was slain by Dream._ ]

It didn’t register at first, this admission of mortality. You stared at the message, dull to what it really meant. Then, slowly, ice began to creep its way through your veins, converging on your heart.

A sharp intake of breath.

You read the words again, turning them over in your mind and in your hands as if they were smooth river rocks. You stare and stare, everything around you frozen all but for this small string of words.

_Technoblade was slain by Dream._

It was as if someone had scraped off the thin varnish on The Blade and made him mortal. Forced him to be, for once in his life. He’s exactly as he said that day in the ruins of L’manberg- a person. No more would the cry ‘Technoblade never dies!’ strike fear into the hearts of the Greater Dream SMP and beyond- because it was no longer true. Technoblade can die, the purported ‘Blood God’ being no more godly than any of the rest of you; painfully human and terribly flawed.

You read over the message once more, watching it slowly fade away. _Technoblade was slain by Dream_. You figured that you would be happy, but that isn’t how you feel. What you feel is much more complicated than that. 

It wasn’t cold and distant, this wasn’t resignation. It was barely satisfaction, good feelings didn’t swell inside of you at the thought of Technoblade dying. It was a bitter kind of happiness, still soaked in pain. It was broken, and angry; it filled your mouth with cotton and made it hard to breathe.

Because you _desperately_ wanted this to feel more than satisfactory. You wanted to celebrate, to shout with glee and dance upon the desiccated ashes of a fallen god; but there was a piece of you that didn’t. Tiny shards of your person that remembered his begrudging admission of friendship. Not that it could forgive his destruction of L’manberg, but those parts of you still ache.

The ache of what could have been nags at you constantly. The ache of meeting your hero, and him not living up to your expectations, the ache of him letting you down like so many others before him. You try to push it down, but it always seemed to resurface, like a Drowned in search of prey at night.

You don’t know how to feel.

“Are you alright?” Tubbo’s voice calls you back from that darkened place you’ve gone.

“I’m not sure, Tubbo,” You answer with honesty; “I kinda hardly believe it,” You let out a nervous peel of laughter, trying to dissolve the tension. You could think about this later.

“I know,” Tubbo lets out a little giggle of his own; “So much for ‘Technoblade never dies’, amirite?” 

“Right?” You chuckle at that. 

The darker parts of your heart stir. You do feel happy that he’s died. Maybe he even learned his lesson about teaming with Dream, seeing as the green bastard was the one who killed him. 

But it was _Dream_. Dream hurt him. Dream killed him, and you enjoyed it. The thought of approving of _anything_ Dream has done makes you feel sick.

“Tom-”

[ _Dream was slain by Technoblade._ ]

“ _What?_ ” There’s no delay in how you feel about this one- elation and confusion. 

Elation; ding-dong, Dream is dead. Give The Blade his laurels back, he slayed your long-time tormentor, the man who helped spiral Wilbur into further madness and bombed out L’manberg for the fun of it. Tortured and toyed with you, stole your discs for the fun of it. 

Confusion; because how? You can’t imagine that the kill Dream had gotten in was clean. There was no possible way for Technoblade to respawn so fast, had he inflicted something lingering? He must have. You can’t imagine a fight between the two of them being anything but a dirty brawl. 

It was probably a bloody melee between the two gods, one flashing green and the other red, like a pair of exotic fish. Beta fish, Wilbur had called them. You can’t imagine either of them giving up easily, it was a fight to the last breath, you could almost see it; teeth pink from blood, broken fingernails and weapons between the two of them as they must have slowly bled each other dry in the wilderness. 

That must have been what happened, they bled each other dry. It must have been agony, to die so slow. Your two deaths had, for a mercy, at least been quick. You can’t imagine how long their respawns might take. 

Neither of them would be back for a short while. All would be quiet, a time for rest and revival. For a few precious moments, Snowchester could flourish, and flowers would push their way up through the decaying bodies of fallen gods. 

“Are you gonna be okay, Tom?” Tubbo asks once again, extending a hand to your shoulder.

You tear your gaze from the messages and look up at your friend, a cautious smile on your face. 

“Yeah, big man. I think we’re all gonna be okay,” You say. 

The ‘for now’ goes unsaid.

…

There is only silence and a pain that swallows your entire being. It rattles around the center of your being and radiates outward, devouring whatever subconscious thought or utterance that tries to surface. You have no body, there is only this focal point of agony to highlight your existence.

And then your eyes open.

You quickly throw an arm over your face to avoid being blinded by the mid-day sun that so rudely spilled through your window right into your eyes. A jolt of pain shoots up from your chest and you let out a groan, moving your other hand over to prod at the offending area.

Bandages. Tightly wound around your torso, right below your heart. Right where your sternum cracked open, where Nightmare struck gold and popped your ribcage wide open, sent shards of bone splintering through your lungs and blood boiling up your throat, choking your airway. 

The voices started screaming, their voices melding into one discordant chant; _Technokill! Technokill! make him pay (who makes god bleed?)._

_Kill him before he kills you._

Dream’s body had been so heavy, it practically broke the rest of your ribs with how he sagged against you. You remember, he couldn’t keep himself upright anymore, hoodie practically dyed a bright bloody red from all the holes you’d poked in his neck and back.

The weight of his body drove the axe deeper and deeper into your chest; panic sets in as you feel the blade settling slowly into its new sheath and gag, covering Dream’s cracked porcelain mask in a fresh spray of blood. You heave again, body thrashing against the green bastard in a futile attempt at escape.

You’d opened your mouth and gasped, fought, pleaded for just one more breath- but it never came.

You’re sitting up in bed, arms wrapped around your torso before you double over as the pain catches up with you; creeping steadily into the forefront of your mind and settling there like static. Your eyes squeeze shut.

_Focus. Suck air in. Hold. Push it out._

You open your eyes.

You check to make sure the cold sweat that had begun to bead on your forehead and run down your back and stomach is not, in fact, blood from a popped stitch or reopened wound. You discover there’s dried blood still crusted in your hair; but your bandages are crisp, you’re willing to bet they were changed recently.

The stairs creak, probably Phil coming up to check on you. 

_Not Killza._ A few voices murmur. 

_Ranboo! Ranboo!_ A pair of voices coo as the bi-sected hybrid slowly comes into view as he ascends the stairs. The voices are far too excited to see Ranboo, continuing their chanting with the occasional squeal of _E!_

There’s surprise in those two-toned eyes as they gaze upon you, hunched over in bed but very much alive and conscious for the first time in what had probably been a few days.

“Hey man!” And then he _waves_ , Ranboo actually waves at you. You huff out a chuckle as he continues; “I wasn’t really sure how long you’d be asleep- we- Phil said that a respawn like your’s would take some time. How are you feeling?”

“Shitty,” You respond, your voice a rasp; “Is this some new kinda’ nerf or somethin’?”

Ranboo shrugs; “Your guess is as good as mine.”

You uncurl by the slightest degrees, still guarding your wounded middle like an animal wary of a curious human who might have come to help. Because you are a wary animal. Despite what Phil might think, despite what the voices might say; you won’t trust so easily again. You won’t have your trust broken a second time.

Ranboo seems to take the hint, distrust lingering in the air like a bad perfume. He wrings his hands awkwardly as the silence between you grows.

“Any word on Dream?” You ask, and his head perks up immediately.

“No,” He shakes his head side-to-side; “Everyone in Snowchester says he’s left them alone.”

“Is that what they’re callin’ it now?” You quirk a brow in interest. How long have you been out? 

Ranboo holds up his arms as if you actually presented as a threat at the moment. To him you probably did, and for your reputation you’re thankful. “It’s not like L’manberg, I swear- it’s just Tommy and Tubbo-”

“Ranboo,” You huff out a chuckle, “Do I _look_ like I could go raze another country, even if I wanted to right now?” You would bet money on being able to stand up, possibly even swing a sword for a few minutes, but destroy a possible new governing body? Outrun a wither like you did days ago? Unlikely. You know your limits.

“No,” Ranboo answers. He doesn’t look at you, but his voice is firm in it’s answer. So he’s grown a spine since you last saw him.

“Keep it between us,” You say, “The fact that I'm awake. And Phil, obviously.”

It’s possible Dream is doing the same thing you were going to do; lay low and wait. The advantage of the tall grass was that it was impossible to see the snake until it strikes, but what happens if you’re both snakes? One has to give eventually, from one primal urge or another. You can only stave off hunger and rage for so long by supping on scraps.

“Of course,” Ranboo says, as if that were a given. As if you could trust him. 

You won’t.

He shuffles in place once more, sensing the conversation drawing to its natural- if a bit awkward and strained- close. “I’ll go get Phil.”

You lay back down and use the time you spend waiting to think.

…

You’re not sure when your unconscious mind finally allowed your conscious mind to explore the waking world once again, whatever blips of wakefulness you experience being fleeting and far between. You’re barely aware, barely hanging onto any semblance of reality. If this was a respawn, you never want to go through with it again.

Your neck aches. Burns, even, every time your head moves by the smallest degrees. Your neck and several parts of your back and sides all pulsate with a lingering, dull throb from wounds that even respawn refused to heal. It’s so bad that the first time you open your eyes, they almost roll back in their sockets from the rising crescendo of pain in your upper body.

Your vision is hazy at best, glossed over by sleep and a dense fog of dull agony. Unconsciousness vys once more for your return, blackness lapping at the edges of your vision, but not yet. Not yet. 

This room is familiar. 

You haven’t been here in so long, there wasn’t really a point in returning, after all. What with your growing lack of a need for sleep and the efforts you made to put distance between you and the only people you truly ever cared about; you hadn’t even expected them to keep your room in the community house. But here it was, completely untouched as the day you’d left it.

Should you find this comforting? Does anyone know you’re here, sleeping off a respawn for who knows how long?

You barely find the energy to do a self-inventory beyond the pain from Techno’s many, many stab wounds that dotted your neck, shoulders and back. He’d been so frantic when you finally shoved Nightmare in his chest, wriggling around beneath you, like a snake desperately trying to escape a farmer’s rake. He’d managed to grab ahold of something sharp, whether it had been a splinter from one of your many broken weapons or a hidden dagger you did not know- all you know is his desperate stabbing didn’t stop even as you felt his sternum break under the axe blade and your weight.

There had been so much desperation behind his blows that the tip eventually broke off in your shoulder blade, but by that point it didn’t matter to you anyways. You had become so numb, so cold; despite the fact that there had been no snow. You fought him in a field, the flowers had been yellow.

They _were_ yellow. You suppose now they were red, or a rusty brown.

There’s no blade in your shoulder. In fact, whatever wounds you sustained that hadn’t been healed by the respawn were wrapped neatly. You can feel them as you shift ever so slightly, trying to keep the pain to a dull ache rather than a sharp flair.

Someone _did_ know you were here. Your wounds were bandaged, your clothes were changed, and...

Your face is uncovered.

A harsh sound makes its way out of your throat, strangled as if it had to fight its way out as if thorns had sprouted in your windpipe while you slept. You try again, another coarse gurgle grinding its way up from your throat. A demand. A plea. _Where is it? Where is that damn mask?_

“Your mask is right here,” A quiet, familiar voice soothes from just beyond your blurry gaze, as if they knew just what you wanted. As if they knew you. You can’t turn your head to see who it is no matter how much you wanted to, the muscles in your neck spasm in rebellion every time you try. You want to see. You _know_ that voice. 

The mattress dips, a man with black hair and a pair of glasses affectionately nicknamed ‘the Clout Goggles’ propped on his head. It’s George. He’s _here_ , with _you_ , in the flesh.

Helplessly, your eyes start to well up. You try to blink them away, your fingers curling into weak fists in futile exertion. _Don’t cry_ , you tell yourself, _not over this, not over him. Not after you’ve worked so hard._ Whatever efforts you make are fruitless as a few tears slide down your face.

God you’re pathetic.

“Ggg-” Your vocal cords spasm in your throat, trying in vain to produce a sound. You sound a bit like you’re choking; guttural and needy, like a cornered animal. Your fingers twitch as George’s arm moves, propping his body so that he can lean down closer to your face.

“He got your throat really bad, I think your vocal cords are shot,” George says, barely above a whisper; “Try not to talk for now.”

“For now, I want you to listen to me.”


	2. maybe damocles had a right to be scared

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IM BACK
> 
> this fic is now 19 pages long in my google docs and its causing ffxiv to lag when i have it open at the same time. i dont know whats happening. this fic came out of nowhere and decided that its just my life now. im cool with it honestly.

The morning is quiet when you step out into the fresh snow, armed with a cloak and the _Obliterator_ , your boots quickly sinking a few inches, snow up to your ankles. Your face tilts up, eyes closed and the cold kisses your cheeks with fresh snowflakes. With a shiver, you draw your cloak closer around your shoulders and make your way towards the honey farm to check on the bees. 

You elect to ignore the ache in your chest, telling yourself that it aches all the time now. The act of sitting or standing up was the worst of it, and if you were gentle, you figured it wouldn’t hurt to get some work around the house done. 

The voices hum low in your head, a choir to the tone of the letter _E_ with the occasional stray _rainbowchat_ , whatever that was. You gave up trying to understand some of the things they said a long time ago. 

You survey the bees, check the hoppers to make sure none of them are clogged; and make the decision to check on the turtles as well. 

The turtle farm was much further from the house than the bees were, a glittered expanse of white only interrupted by the tracks of a stray mob between them. Not only was it far away, it was partially hidden by terrain, sunk into the ground and cordoned off by a slab of rock and dirt. 

None of that is a suitable deterrent for you, even with the painful twinges in your chest. You make the trek to the turtle farm, alone and unsupervised.

The turtles, for their part, are fine. You give a cursory glance to the scute chest, check to make sure there’s adequate food for all of the turtles in the pen. You even uncover Toby, the stray turtle having slipped free from his personal pen to frolic among his kin. You decide to leave him where he is for the moment, but not without giving him a dirty look for scaring you into thinking he’d gone missing.

It’s when you make your way back to the house that everything goes wrong.

A straggler from beyond the treeline, sheltered from the sun’s scorching gaze by leafy branches and the last dregs of some poor soul’s battered iron armor. It’s arms extend and it grabs for you, you fumble with your sword, your footing unsteady. You stumble out of the way and count it as a win, because _Technoblade doesn’t die_ again dammit, especially not to a zombie in _iron armor_.

Your sword is out and in your hands, purple enchantment glinting in the sunlight. The snow, the armor, the glow from your sword; everything glimmers with blinding light as you swing, blade digging into the softened flesh of the zombie’s unprotected neck. 

Your leg comes up, foot planted on the dented iron chestplate and with a harsh push it falls to the ground. Your sword rises, high above your head, and comes down hard on the zombie. Again. And again. And again.

 _Stop!_ The voices buzz in unison; _No more blood— (technobleed) Technohurt! Blood for the Blood God._

There’s a huff, you look down; a red spot blooming on your front. You’re dumbfounded for a moment, because the mob didn’t lay a finger on you, until the twinge in your chest turns sharp; a sudden, stabbing pain that brings you to your knees with a shriek that you’ll later deny you ever made. 

Using your sword as a makeshift walking stick, you drive the blade into the snow for something stable to hold you upright. It sinks, deep into the white powder and moist dirt beneath, but holds nonetheless. 

You pull yourself up on shaky legs, legs you’ll deny shook at all once this is all said and done; and start to make the painful trek back to the house. You can make it, it’s not that far away. You’ve made worse journeys before, with worse injuries; you could make this.

Like when the Butcher Army dropped an anvil on your head. The migraine had rattled around your skull for three days afterwards, haunting your home and your head like Ghostbur. This could be a migraine, just grit your teeth and bare it.

 _I can work with this_ , you think to yourself, yanking your sword out of the dirt. If you tell yourself something long enough, you start to believe it, and you’d like to believe your footing is steady enough not to warrant the help of the _Obliterator_. Besides, if you jam it into the dirt enough times, it’ll get dull.

You press a hand against your sternum, where the blood was coming from and let out an angry hiss of pain. The house isn’t that far. You’re being dramatic.

 _Call for help! Get help! (technopain, call killza) Too much blood._

“Now you guys are just being dramatic,” You snort, voice coming out a pained rasp. You could always count on the voices to be a good punching bag in moments of frustration. With how much shit they give you? They deserve it. 

You don’t actually make it that far. Phil is by your side as if he teleported, trying to encourage you to lean against him as he takes you by the arm in an attempt to lead you back to the house. But you’re a stubborn fuck, you pull away from him as soon as you’re able, using the wall of your home to brace yourself.

Phil has this look on his face; he’s not happy, but he’s not angry either. There’s a mix of expressions on his face that you’d normally be able to untangle if it weren’t for the pain and the damn voices taking up more of your concentration than you’d like to admit at the moment.

“Phil—”

Phil puts up a hand, then directs you inside, to a place for you to sit. He prys your bloodied fingers off of your chest, peels away the halves of the bloody shirt without a word. It’s not his first time sewing you back together, and it will most definitely not be his last. 

“Let’s get this fixed up first,” He mumbles, gentle and quiet, like when Wilbur used to scrape his knees up really bad. 

You sit back and you let him, there’s no utility to protesting help, especially from Phil. You’ll take it freely, as you always have; and conserve your strength for whatever tension was building on the server while you languish at your weakest. 

It’s only after he’s got you sewn back together that he starts in on you. His expression twists, ugly and dark because neither of you want this. It’s only happening because he thinks it’s a necessary conversation to have, to speak his angry concerns for you aloud.

“What would have happened if I hadn’t heard you? Where would you be right now?” 

“I would have found a way to manage, Phil; I—”

“I don’t care!” There’s a rare bite to his words, that fatal sting before the lecture when you know deep in your heart that you’ve done something wrong. It’s not something you feel often; “I don’t care if you could have, because you probably could’ve; my fuckin’ point is you shouldn’t have to! You should be recovering— relaxing, mate, you need to stop—”

You bite back a snarl and the curl of your lip, bile at the back of your throat from sudden building rage; “The world doesn’t _stop_ for somethin’ like this, Phil—“

“It can and it will! I’m not gonna let you run off and make this-” Phil gestures wildly at your chest, freshly stitched back together after your ill-fated foray into the snow; “- happen again! _Fuckin’ hell—_ I cannot do _that_ again!”

You swallow your angry words. Swallow them whole, scraping your throat on the way down. You know what he means by _that_ , no one needs to spell it out for him. He can’t lose again. He can’t lose something else, he can’t lose you.

The fear in his eyes. The subtle, barely controlled tremble in his fingers as he tried to lead you to the house. Something in your chest burns, and it isn’t from the popped stitch. This was deeper, embedded in the bedrock of your being, so deep your eyes sting.

You don’t want to _hurt_ Phil.

“Phil-”

“I’m sorry I-”

“No, no,” With a bit of hesitation, you reach forward and lay a hand on Phil’s arm, “Phil I— I’m sorry,” The rising chorus within you surges and splits, a discordant chant that thrums around the inside of your skull. Their opinions are varied and loud, everyone is always so damn loud, and you never, _never_ listen, do you?

Normally you’d brush it off, water off a duck’s back (you do that so well); but it’s Phil. It’s different when it’s Phil. Loyal Phil, stubborn Phil. Your best friend, for better or for worse.

You hate this feeling. It wells inside of you and sits on your chest like Dream, pierces your heart like his axe.

“Techno—“

“Phil, you’re right. I wasn’t thinking about my health,” earnesty tastes foreign on your tongue, so used to the acrid flavor of the humor you use to cope; you huff out a chuckle at your own expense; “Sorry, this feels so weird—“

Phil smiles, “Maybe. That’s the first time I’ve ever heard you apologize.”

You shrug, eager to brush this off as quickly as possible; “You just got me thinkin’. So. There you go.” Your recovery is quick, clean. Something you’d like to be over and done with as quickly as possible, because you’re bad with feelings, especially your own.

Phil respects it, he respects you. So instead of trying to continue to carry on a conversation, you both fall into a comfortable silence, content to exist in each other’s presence. 

And it’s how you stay, Phil working by the potion racks while you reach for any book in your reach, flipping the pages idly. Until Ranboo walks in, breathless.

“Hey, I saw everything outside and I tried to clean up as best as I could, how’s—“

“I’m doin’ alright now,” You interrupt him as though everyone’s panic had been for nothing; “Thanks for cleanin’ up though.”

Ranboo shuffles; a tall, awkward presence in the doorway. You’re content to let him just _exist_ with you and Phil, when Phil pipes up with a request.

“Hey Ranboo, can you do me a favor?”

…

The air feels different today. There’s a heaviness to it, heavy with the scent of the earth. You watch from the unfinished tower as storm clouds roll over the horizon, a few short miles from Snowchester. You prop your arms behind you and lean back, enjoying the crisp air as it flows in before the rain.

From up here, you can see everything. The sky, the clouds. You could see if anyone was approaching from most sides- you could look down below and see Tubbo putting together the materials needed to build a new apiary. Jack was nowhere to be seen, probably inside doing ‘Jack Manifold things’, whatever that might be. 

Someone is approaching from- some direction. Techno had tried to drill a sense of direction into your head when you had lived under his roof, but it hadn’t stuck. Whatever. Directions were for bitches anyways.

As the person draws closer, you squint your eyes in an attempt to get a closer look. White, black, and flowing blue draped around their whole figure. 

Your lip curls in barely recognized disgust at the familiar shade of blue. It’s Ranboo.

He still comes to visit every-so-often, he’s always friendly, always respectful. Like he isn’t living with two of the people who destroyed your’s and everyone else’s homes, including his. You can’t imagine why he chose to do that, and you don’t care to. You squash the ache in your chest and the rage in your gut every time he appears for Tubbo. 

God bless Tubbo. He still wanted to play nice. If Ranboo was Tubbo’s friend, then the least you could do is play nice.

With that in mind, you let out a sigh and make your way down from the tower to inform Tubbo that Ranboo was headed your way. But by the time you get down the mish-mash of scaffolding and crude stairs; Ranboo is already smack in the middle of Snowchester, having a conversation with Tubbo.

Could he teleport? He _was_ half-enderman, right?

“Tommy!” Tubbo smiles wide, bless him, and waves you over to the small gathering forming in the center of the tiny collection of buildings that made up Snowchester.

“Hey Tubbo,” You say as you approach the two; “Ranboo. I was actually coming to tell you I saw him but it looks like he used his funky enderman powers to beat me to it.” You keep your tone level. 

Ranboo looks between you and Tubbo nervously. “So uh— I was wondering if you guys had any glistering melons-”

You and Tubbo answer him at the same time; “Yes!” “Why?”

Tubbo and Ranboo both look at you, Tubbo in confusion, Ranboo with a sense of barely controlled anxiety. Like he was expecting something bad to happen.

“What?” You ask, softening your tone ever-so-slightly. Maybe you’re being _too_ intimidating; “It was a valid question—”

“Tommy—” “Oh, Phil just wants to make a couple health potions.”

God bless Ranboo. He was too honest for his own good.

You’d like to believe that you’ve picked up a thing or two over the past few months, being in the presence of your gloomy idols. You take a step back, and just listen.

“Oh, okay. You can have a couple,” Tubbo smiles at Ranboo, trying to put the other boy at ease; “Do you need any nether wart too?”

Ranboo shakes his head; “No, we’ve got plenty.”

We. He means him and Philza, and Techno probably, if you count his comatose body. Probably gathering supplies in case of an ambush. With a fair amount of bitter sarcasm, you think about how scary it must be without a powerful terrorist to cower behind.

(you ignore the fact that you did the same, not so long ago)

As the semi-awkward conversation continues to plod along between Tubbo and Ranboo, Jack Manifold decides to step outside of his home and grace you all with his presence. He doesn’t immediately join the rest of you, however, standing on his porch like your father used to on hazy mornings, squinting at the mobs that hugged the treeline while sipping his coffee.

“Hey Jack!” Tubbo waves to the man as he watches from his front step; “Ranboo’s here!”

“That’s great Tubbo,” Jack calls back, not bothering to move off of his front porch. 

He doesn’t actually join the rest of you until Tubbo leaves to retrieve the melons that Ranboo had asked for. You and Ranboo both greet him, your conversation having petered out as soon as Tubbo had detached himself to get what Ranboo needed before he forgot. 

“So what are your plans for the day?” He asks, casual.

“Finish this,” You motion behind you, pointing at the tower with your thumb, “So no bitches can come sneakin’ up on us.”

Jack nods, swiveling his head over to Ranboo; “How are things Ranboo?”

The taller boy shifts nervously, “Alright. You know— as alright as they can be.”

“No change in… you know?” Jack probes, poking the proverbial bear. He doesn’t broach the subject with subtly, or grace; but you were willing to forgive him with this topic. 

Ranboo’s voice drops to a murmur; “No,” with a shake of his head.

Information that could easily be guessed, especially with Ranboo’s appearance in Snowchester at all. With verbal confirmation though, you felt the same dark feeling from several days ago stirring in your heart, that same feeling that chewed a hole in your chest when you first heard the news. A _bittersweet satisfaction_ ; like the name of an expensive chocolate.

Tubbo comes to the conversation’s rescue, glistering melons in-hand. Ranboo accepts the clingfilm-wrapped golden fruit with a grateful smile, tucking it away somewhere in his _Technoblade-Jr_ -blue cape. 

“Is there anything you guys need?” Ranboo asks, glancing with poorly-veiled nervousness around the group.

“Ah, don’t worry about it,” Tubbo grins, “Although if you wanna swing by later and help us out with some builds we’d be grateful for the help!”

You’re biting back several rather scathing remarks that contain no shortage of curse words. Must suck to need to rely on charity after running off with a bunch of traitors, aye bitch?

But you’ve learned your lesson about speaking out of turn.

“Right,” Jack says, pulling his hood up over his head; “I’m gonna head out for a bit.”

Tubbo cocks his head to the side; “Where to?” 

“I’m gonna check up on Sam,” Jack supplies, almost practiced. There’s something in his words that you can’t place. “Heard he was poking around in the ruins.”

An uneasy silence fills the space between the four of you. You know exactly what he means by ‘the ruins’. The ruins of L’manberg, the chasm that goes all the way to bedrock. ‘L’chunkerror’, as The Blade had fondly referred to it once. 

“Oh, well be careful,” Ranboo cheerfully responds after a moment. He’s always so fucking nice, it drives you up a wall. “Ju- just in case there’s still a wither or something down there, you know?”

At this, Jack Manifold huffs out a laugh, ugly and dismissive at the thought of taking care to avoid something like a _fucking wither_ ; “I’ll do that, but I wouldn’t worry too much about it.” 

He smirks, like it was all child’s play. It makes you wonder if he really did walk through Hell, to think a wither wasn’t something to fear; to bother keeping an eye out for. 

“I’ll see you guys later,” Jack says, flicking his wrist in a dismissive wave towards you, Tubbo and Ranboo as he turns his back and walks away. 

After a moment of silence, Tubbo pipes up with a statement that sounds more like a question than anything else; “I didn’t know Sam was looking around the crater.”

“He’s probably just concerned about a wither getting too close to the prison or some shit,” You hazard a guess, though you aren’t sure why. You’re fairly certain the prison is empty.

“Huh,” Ranboo mumbles, voicing your thoughts; “Wonder why.” 

The conversation peters out once again, the three of you standing in a triangle before Tubbo switches the subject to something else entirely. It’s a welcome change.

“Ranboo, do you wanna see the apiary? I’ll probably be able to add the bees today-”

“Ah- actually I should head back,” Ranboo says, shuffling from foot-to-foot; “Thanks for letting me come here and mooch supplies off you guys, but Phil kinda needs me to get back soon.”

At the second mention of Phil, your head snaps up, a question spilling over your lips before you could stop it; “How _is_ Phil?”

Ranboo seems taken aback by your question; “He’s… managing.”

You don’t have the mental energy to wonder why you care so much about the man who abandoned you. He’s not even your father, not really. A mentor, yes. A father? Hardly. He had clearly cared for you, but not enough. 

And maybe you care too much.

“Oh,” You mumble. You fix your gaze on the ground; “I see.”

Another awkward silence. It swells between the three of you, this silence. It isn’t comfortable, it’s frustrating, and it’s become all too common. It was the kind of silence that takes you by the throat and keeps you silent, daring you to break it for fear of what might happen next. You hate it.

“I’ll uh- I’ll see you guys later,” Ranboo murmurs, before he turns and hauls ass out of Snowchester as casually as he possibly can. He isn’t slick, he’s too easy to read.

It’s just you and Tubbo again as the rain begins to roll in.

...

You’ve given up on your underground city for now, content to live among the ruins of what you’d once tried to build. It was still open to others, anyone who wanted to try and spruce up what you started was welcome to try. It wasn’t as if you were against living comfortably, you live here after all. But you aren’t going to finish it. You’ll never finish it. A city of nothing, ruins before it was even completed. Your very own unfinished symphony.

Sometimes you think you hear Wilbur singing to you, his voice barely above the murmur of the breeze; stalking among the unfinished buildings with a smirk and a cigarette.

Steps signal someone entering your little safe haven. Fundy is already here, reading to pass the time. He comes often these days, he’s practically turned your sofa into a nest of his own; a mountain of blankets and a stack of books being a permanent fixture in your living room at this point. 

His fingers twitch, and you know he yearns for a piano. Something to keep his hands occupied. You all want something to keep you occupied during this time of reprieve, this blessed stillness that is guaranteed not to last. You’re all waiting with baited breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Not that you aren’t grateful for the stillness. It gives you time to rest, to think, and to meet up with others who share your thoughts.

With Fundy here, you can only surmise it to be Jack Manifold, showing up right on time. Coming to discuss the state of the server, and what living in Snowchester was like. 

For the life of you, you can’t understand why he’d want to live there. From what you could see, Tommy had brought the combined forces of Techno and Dream down upon you all. Darker parts of you drip with resentment, swollen with ugly emotions that make you feel ashamed at the same time. Tommy was a kid after all, he can’t shoulder all of the blame himself.

So why do you feel so angry towards the child that almost managed to befriend Technoblade not once, but twice? Was it because he almost stalled L’manberg’s destruction for a little longer? Or was it because he’s the easiest to aim your rage at? Was it because there was no one else to blame, seeing as two of the three people who destroyed your home were as good as dead, one was a broken husk of a person and you, well. You helped it burn.

Best not to think about it now. You put those feelings and thoughts into a box, and kick it somewhere across your mindspace where you didn’t have to think about it for a little while. You want your mind to be as blank as an empty journal page.

“Hello Niki,” He greets you, calling you up from your brooding, and your absent-minded sewing. Something for Puffy, something for someone. Something for someone who meant something to you that you _desperately_ hope won’t slip through your fingers like everyone else. “Hello Fundy.”

“Hello Jack,” You say in return. Fundy merely looks up from his reading, gives Jack a nod. 

He’s practically a ghost since Doomsday, haunting your halls almost as much as the memory of his father. He looks more like him everyday, all he’s missing is the trenchcoat and lighter. 

“I’m sure you both know about what happened to Dream and Techno,” Jack says, not moving to sit down. He stands over you both, like he has something to declare.

“Has something finally changed?” You ask, hungry for information. Has the other shoe finally come down to crush you all?

Jack shakes his head, a wicked smile plays on his lips; “Nothing. From what Ranboo said, Techno’s a vegetable, and I’m willing to bet Dream is the same.”

You breathe a mental sigh of relief. The sword still swings overhead, but the thread remains uncut. It simply hangs there, swinging, a deadly reminder of what may come.

“Saves us the trouble of having to take him out ourselves,” Fundy mutters from his little spot in the corner. It’s the first time he’s spoken today.

“Aye,” Jack voices in agreement, that damn smile only seeming to grow. It’s contagious, this unspoken plan that dances in the shadows of his eyes. You lean closer, clutching the table at his next declaration; “It appears that the almighty have fallen. What should we get up to in their absence?”


	3. and what of antigone's morbid promenade?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whats up this chapter actually has a loose tie-in in the form of the drabble [i think this time i'm dying](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29163663) because i couldnt help myself. anyways ik chapter three was suppose to be the last one but that isnt the case but its cool bc i actually have two more chapters on the way now, yippie

_GeorgeNotFound whispers to you: help.  
GeorgeNotFound whispers to you: it’s an emergency.  
GeorgeNotFound whispers to you: at the community house.  
GeorgeNotFound whispers to you: hurry please._

There’s a stillness to the night air that makes it feel as if the world has pressed the ‘pause’ button. The heavens above don’t turn, the moon doesn’t sway towards the opposite horizon. Instead, all is quiet and unmoving on the outskirts of the ruins of L’manberg. Everything stilled, like the server itself was holding its breath in the wake of recent events, not that you blame it.

The only sound is the metallic flick of your lighter, opening and closing, opening and closing; briefly lighting your face and surroundings as you make your way to the newly rebuilt Community House, contemplating everything and nothing. Contemplating your choices. _Flick_ , a tiny flame bursts to life, _snap_ , it’s gone. 

Contemplating Karl, and the fact that you left him check up on the fucking _Community House_ , of all fucking places. It makes your heart ache. George couldn’t pick somewhere better? Somewhere with less painful memories attached? Even if it wasn’t the same anymore, even with different materials and new glass, even with the new flower trelesses and open doorways; at its’ core, it was still the same place.

_Flick. Snap._

Puffy rebuilt it, board for board, brick for brick. Painstakingly salvaged what she could from the ground, the lake, and the smoldering ruins of the first home you’d built when you, Dream and George first stumbled upon this land. Memories of a simpler time, a better time. A time that you ache for, deep in your chest and in your bones; an ache that knows part of you is missing. You’re grateful to her, because she had only wanted to make things easier on you and George, but part of you wishes she’d just left it alone.

Your thoughts turn dark, to your desire to burn this reminder of who you loved and who pushed you away. You have a lighter, you’ve burned more important buildings and places before. No one would miss this place.

You don’t, despite the itch in your fingers and the ache in your heart. George had asked you here; and for the life of you, you can’t imagine why. It had to be an emergency, just like he said; but you haven’t seen anything on your trek that could hint at what he was talking about. It eats at you. A growing malcontent, deep in your gut. You left Karl to help him, you left him with Quackity sure; but you still left. What if he wakes up and you’re not there?

_Flick_. A tiny flame bursts to life.

You’re probably stretching yourself too thin, but you’d do anything for the people you loved. You’re a fucking moron, you just can’t help yourself.

Too late now, you suppose.

_Snap_. You snuff it out the flame.

As you approach, you can see the downstairs lights glowing gently. You consider dragging your feet, considering the fact that you’d rather not be here; but throwing a temper tantrum wouldn’t hasten you back to Karl’s side. Best to see what George wanted and get it over and done with.

You barely knock once before the door creeps open, just enough for George’s face to peak out. 

“Sapnap?” He whispers, and the door opens by the slightest of degrees; as if the crickets, crops and stars above were spies listening in on a secret conversation.

“George. What’s up?” You have no shortage of questions; but those could be asked later, when you didn’t have a sick fiance that you needed to get back to as soon as possible.

“Come in,” George steps out of the way, motioning for you to enter; “I need a few extra hands with these potions.”

“What’re you brewing so many potions for?” The words leave your mouth before you had time to think over what they meant. Why? There’s no fight left to fight; word from Snowchester said that Technoblade was still in a coma, and Dream was nowhere to be found— unless he was brewing for some other reason. Construction mishaps, and mob encounters, for one. You’re so used to everything being geared towards war that it was immediately what your mind jumped to.

George shrugs, shutting the door behind you; “Just in case anyone needs them.”

You get to work in silence, easily slipping back into an old familiar rhythm. A slow and painful realization comes on as you work that you’ve missed this, missed your old friends, the ‘Dream Team’ as it used to be called. Before the wars and the fights and the ‘I don’t care about anyone on this server’ nonsense. 

You ran off and built something new, something just as beautiful; gained a fiancé and a new family. George had come with you, but it didn’t lessen the distance that had grown between the two of you. It didn’t change the fact that he left. It wouldn’t change the fact that pieces of your heart will never quite fit together the same again.

Were you naive to believe that you could escape? That there were places you could make safe and beautiful?

You fumble for a distraction from your thoughts; “So how’ve you been since the move?” 

George hums, glances to the side. He’s distracted; “I’ve been good. I’ve enjoyed it I— it’s good to be back here. I’ve missed here.”

He’s missed home. He never liked L’manberg, or being king or the constant fighting. It’s why he left in the first place, and you knew that. You’d accepted it a long time ago. “Does it feel the same?” You ask.

“No,” He answers, softly; “But I don’t really mind. I’m just glad that everything is over.”

“Yeah,” You agree. You miss home too. The idea of Karl waking up alone nags at you once more as you impatiently check on the potions currently in one of the brewing stands in front of you. 

“After this batch you can leave if you wanna,” George offers, as if sensing your longing— your impatience; “I can handle it from here.”

“You sure?” There’s some hesitance, but if he was giving you an out, you’d take it.

George answers with a tone that’s almost commanding; “Yes.”

…

The stairs creak a bit under your weight. They’re one of the few parts of the house Puffy was able to salvage.

Do you feel bad about lying to Sapnap? No, because it’s not lying if you never had to explain why you were doing something in the first place. Let him fill in the blanks, and when all of this is over, no one would be any the wiser. Let everyone think you used the health potions on scraped knees and toothaches. It’s nicer. Prettier. You can stomach that.

So, freshly-brewed health potion in-hand, you meander down the hallway, down to a familiar room that had been painstakingly recreated. All of three of them had, filling you with a bitter sense of nostalgia. Is this really what you wanted? To pretend like it never happened?

_No_ , you assert to yourself; this isn’t pretending it never happened, it’s moving on. 

Last room on the left. Dream’s old room.

The room you’d dragged him into after retrieving him from spawn, bloodied and broken; barely conscious. Flotsam, fair game for anyone who wanted to play hero for Doomsday. 

From the moment you saw him to now, you haven’t been able to pin down exactly why you did what you did.

There’s a feeling that rises up in your chest, rears back its head and purrs as it bubbles over. It’s warm, and tingles a bit; followed by an echo of _what if? what if?_ What if what? 

You’re selfish and you selfishly hope that you’re right is what if.

The door swings open with a slight creak of its hinges, you poke your head into the dark room and take a cursory glance. Nothing has changed, but for the glimmer of the moonlight off of Dream’s open eyes.

“How long have you been awake?” You ask as you make your way over to him, your voice a low murmur. The way you used to, back when it was just the three of you.

“N-not lo-ng,” His words scrape along the barely healed wounds of his throat, gasped and desperate for any form of vocalization. He always did love the sound of his own voice.

You aren’t entirely sure if his attempt at speaking was a good sign or not. “Does it hurt?”

Dream swallows, grimaces as the muscles in his throat pull and stretch healing wounds. “B-bit.”

A one-word whisper, barely even audible. 

“S’alright, brought you something for that,” The potion in your hand feels warmer, as if it senses that its time has come.

There’s a pitcher of water by the bed, an empty glass next to it. It’s original purpose was just that, water for Dream to drink; for you to coax him to drink at least. Now, you fill the glass half-full and add about a quarter of the health potion to it. You know better than to give full-strength potions to someone in Dream’s position, no matter how tempting it might be.

“Come’ere—” 

He tries to help you as you slide an arm ever-so-slowly under his body, trying to avoid any of many puncture wounds that dot his back and neck. The worst covered his neck, which made it particularly hard for him to hold up his head, and for you to prop it up. One muscle spasm and it was all over for the both of you.

Through your combined efforts, half of the glass of water-and-potion mix disappears before you have to settle Dream back down onto the pillows. Once he’s down, you settle yourself on the edge of the bed, placing the glass on the side table for later. 

You once again find yourself wondering why you did this.

A tug on your shirt. The brush of fingertips, a hand settles around your wrist. Not harsh, a weak grasp. Just enough to make sure you’re still there.

You cast your gaze down to Dream’s hand around your wrist and curl your fingers around his own wrist.

...

You can’t deny the server was more peaceful. In the wake of the disappearance of your duckling, everything had slowed and calmed; a sense of uneasy peace had settled over the server like a wool blanket.

In the wake of this peace, you searched. When the community house was destroyed, so was any respawn points anyone might have set— meaning anyone set there who died would go to spawn instead. You rebuilt it as a service to his friends, but it occurred to you that he might run somewhere familiar to recuperate. It had been a hunch, thinking maybe Dream would show up there, but he wasn’t, and when you checked spawn, he wasn’t there either.

Perhaps you’d taken too long. It had been a long journey, you’d left after rebuilding the Community House; perhaps someone had come to take their due for Doomsday, but you would have seen the death message in your comm. Perhaps he’d gotten up and walked away— but that idea was quickly shot down too, as word came from Snowchester that Technoblade was still in a coma.

_The bigger they are, the harder they fall_ ; you’d theorized, the server lashing out at the powerful and bringing them back down to the same level as everyone else. 

In the week that followed the deaths; you asked around to see if anyone had seen Dream, looked around the server, leaving no proverbial stone unturned as you went. Asked around Snowchester, El Rapids; even the Badlands. Nothing. No leads, no information, and no duckling to show for your efforts. 

The only thing you had to show for it was unbearable to think about— two dead bodies in a clearing. Sam buried them.

With no other recourse with which to speak of, you seek out George at the Community House. 

Your mind runs rampant with ideas. Perhaps Dream had crawled to one of his friends for help and they turned him away— maybe they might have passed him a few potions and pointed him in a direction, far far away; or maybe, _maybe—_

“Sorry Puffy, I haven’t seen him.”

( _maybe, maybe, maybe, maybe…_ )

A week. You’ve been looking for Dream for a week. And even before that, so much time was spent with non stop worry, guilt, anger; and the ever pervasive question of _where did you go wrong?_ lurking in the back of your mind. You don’t know what else to do. You shatter, nearly to pieces, right in front of the Community House.

“Please, George, if you know anything I’m— I’m desperate. I’m begging you to please tell me,” Your face screws up in a violent and futile attempt to try and keep the tears at bay. You _are_ desperate. You are begging, if you could stomach getting on your knees, you would. You can’t stand the thought of your duckling— your lost, misguided duckling— laying in the forest somewhere, possibly comatose and surrounded by danger. 

Maybe if it was you who found him, maybe you could take him far, far away from here. You could help him. 

Lies every mother tells herself. You just can’t help yourself, can you?

“George please I— Sam found them,” You’re babbling at this point and you hate yourself for it; “It had been so long, they— the bodies were all melted together and shit and I— I can’t think about him like that. If you know _anything_ I—”

“I don’t,” George says, bruskly; “I don’t know what you want from me, Puffy. He doesn’t care about me, he said so himself. I’m not going to go out of my way to help him.”

His words hit with a sort of finality, an unspoken; _this conversation is over_. The final strike of the hammer, the last nail in your coffin.

You sigh. You collect yourself. You admit defeat; “Fine— thank you for talking to me.” 

George glares daggers into your skull, tired of your attempts to get into the house that he had taken upon himself to inhabit. The house you had rebuilt after its’ mysterious destruction.

You built this house. 

But you respect his privacy. “You’re welcome,” He mumbles, his tone much softer than you expected. 

It doesn’t stop the sting as the door slams shut. You stare straight ahead, right through the glass front of the door at George, who looks at you for a moment longer before retreating further into the community house.

You turn and walk away as well. Embittered, confused. Angry. If Dream isn’t here, isn’t where he died, and isn’t at spawn, then just where the _hell_ was he?


End file.
